Oh, bitter-hearted me, thrice-parted me,
What Pythagorean discipline will wring
From discord, harmony?
And where, out of this quarreling breast,
Shall peace be found?
Neither the earth, the bloody-syllabled,
Nor the distracted air
Affords a ground
For music to build house.
Selves, you are blackguards who inhabit me
As vagabonds do ditches, prisoners — jails:
Bound, being at rest,
And muddied, being free.
Yet now, even with harsh cracked voices, sing,
And briefly, though joy fails,